


The Start of the End of the World

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Flogging, M/M, illicit use of history, lusting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: Mark Antony meets Julius Caesar.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaesaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/gifts).



That year, Julius Caesar was frequenting Servilia’s house. 

“You there,” Caesar called out.

Mark Antony stilled. 

“Come here.”

And drawn like a moth to a flame Mark Antony went. Caesar seemed surprised to see him. Mark Antony realised that he was not the one Caesar called. His hands shook as he took a sip of the proffered wine, grateful for the discretion.

Caesar looked at the tall wide-eyed boy in front of him. Good looking enough, as boys go, well-lashed dark eyes and a beautiful mocking mouth. Caesar, who was once a beautiful boy himself, reconsidered. No, not a boy, practically a man, with shoulders that promised a gladiator’s strength with enough time. For now, handsome enough and attractive enough to both women and men and easy to forgive for any social trespass. 

Caesar let his gaze linger a moment too long. There was Servilia to consider, but there would always be a war and good men were rare.

“Will you join the service?” The campaigns he could see in his mind promised to be hard. Boys and men would die. Those who survive would become more than themselves. 

“Yes.” Antony’s acquiescence poured out him, too hasty. He was overly warm. Caesar was interested, but Antony, for the first time since his voice started to deepen, did not know how to display himself to his advantage. He feared to appear gawky, too longing. His composure seemed to have abandoned him.

He let out a breath when Caesar put his hand on his shoulder and lingered there, the warmth seeping through the wool cloth. He could feel his heart beating faster. His face flushed. He looked at Caesar, bewildered, who merely smiled at him. He was still. 

“Stand tall, Marc Antony,” Caesar finally said. “You have courage enough to face the senate to defend your father. Keep it.”

Antony’s father died bankrupt and his stepfather was being reckless in his choice of companions. Antony was beginning to learn from Clodius and his own friends that Cicero was a dangerous man and Antony’s mother’s choice of husbands was a reflection of her taste more than any other concern. 

Caesar was still studying him, this profligate son of another profligate, and perhaps picked the single virtue that even Cicero could not turn to an insult. Mark Antony stood still just long enough so that Caesar saw he could be attentive, then he turned and left.

“Did he think Caesar could help him with his debts?” Someone whispered as he walked past. Mark Antony pretended not to hear.

-=-=

Clodius Pulcher, in the infinite variety of his antics and his touching sensibility regarding Mark Antony, Rome, and his own career, in no particular order, sent him forth with a good introduction.

“Caesar is making war in Gaul,” was all he said. Antony arrived with his soldiers, wondering if Clodius was growing tired of him. The thought clawed at him. Antony himself was a little tired of cavalry. The flanks of the legions seldom saw action and Gabinius did not see him as more than Clodius’ henchman. He had been careful to conceal both his fear and his boredom, but perhaps it wasn’t enough. Clodius’ was a violent man and could be cruel. Gaul had fewer opportunities than Syria and this isolated him except for Caesar. 

Caesar said: “I know you.” 

They met six years ago. Mark Antony’s stepfather had been dead for as many.

“I doubt that,” Antony said, the leather segments of his armor shifting. He’s not quite washed of the road and still smelled slightly of horse, but so did Caesar’s tent. Horse and ashes. He would’ve preferred to have washed and leave a good impression but Fortune did not always smile on him.

Caesar remarked, taking no offense at the correction. He knew Antony's reputation. He would be willing to learn what Antony could be. “War agrees with you, but is that all?”

Antony shrugged. He smiled, encouraged by the pace of the conversation. “It’s Jupiter’s will what duties Mars has to fulfill.”

“Very well,” Caesar said. “I know Clodius and I think—“ he laughed, a sound half-bitten off, “I have just what you need. I’m afraid that Gauls don’t build many walls for you to leap. It’s not a campaign for the legends.”

There was diplomacy and a series of careful, economical, and efficient movements and no wild flourishes, but soldiers all had coin in their purse and Caesar rode with them at their side. The army followed him with very little complaint, as if taking the lands between Pyrenees to the Rhone was merely a matter of time. 

Mark Antony enjoyed his new command. Fortune remained a fickle mistress but Caesar’s was right: war agrees with Antony. He could be loyal to his men as they would be to him. When they complained, he took their complaints to Caesar and if Caesar ignored them, he provided ease whenever he could.

Then on generous spring morning, he found himself in a Gallic town taking his own ease when he heard Caesar’s voice.

“Maybe I should just leave you here,” Caesar said, cold. “If this is how you prefer to spend your time.”

Mark Antony was very close to coming and saw beneath half-lidded eyes that Caesar had come into the room alone. He debated briefly whether to finish and did. It was not much of a finish, the whore beneath him was trembling and trying to move away, perhaps on account of the interruption. He slapped her arse then let her go before turning around.

“You don’t clamor for a gift and you don’t obtain a leave by simply taking it,” Caesar said. He was not disappointed, only resigned. Mark Antony treated his soldiers well, but he was only one man and Gaul was not yet Caesar’s. 

Mark Antony’s soldiers would return to camp. Their commander would not. At least, not yet. 

“I-“

But Caesar was not in the mood for arguments. He forestalled the speech with a raised hand. “You there,” he ordered the madam who had come in. “He’s to stay here for the night.” He threw a look at Antony. “Do as you like with him.”

“But..but..” The madam stammered. “How should I-“

“I expect him sober in the morning,” Caesar said. And with that, he left.

In the morning, Antony had a headache, but what hurt worst was his pride. It was just as well they’re in this backwater bit of the empire where no one knew him. Just as well that he wore his simple tunic and stowed his clothes when he still had the chance. Just as well, he thought viciously, that he had enjoyed himself before Caesar showed up, interrupting. And now his soldiers would think that he had abandoned them. He hissed, realizing that this was his punishment. 

Antony would not admit that he knew Caesar stood in the doorway. He wanted him to see him finish. He wanted- Damn everything and everyone anyways. Dawn was creeping across the coverlet like a long-fingered crone; another cloudy day in Gaul. The endless campaign.

“It’s morning.” And it was Caesar himself, standing there, looking. Antony stretched, kicked off the coverlet. Let him look. Caesar’s gaze indeed swept across him, as dark and as inscrutable as ever. “Can you ride?”

Antony cocked his head. “It depends on what.”

“I see a night playing a prostitute has only increased your appetite.” Caesar, dry.

“It’s not a very good punishment,” Antony said, being perverse. “I seldom have such a soft bed.”

“Thank me then.” 

Of all the things Caesar was to him and offered him- 

Antony smiled. He bit his lip and looked at Caesar from beneath his lashes. “How would you like me then?” he asked, taunting, and then let out a cry as Caesar grabbed the inside of his thigh where the tendon lay close to the knee. 

“Don’t test me, Antony,” Caesar said, ignoring the whimpers that Antony tried to suppress. Antony closed his eyes, face flushing as the cool air hit his privates; his cock, under the attention, stiffened and his balls lifted. The view must’ve been something. Someone, he didn’t recall who, had shaved him there sometime during the evening previous.

Caesar let out a snort. He let go of his grip on Antony’s thigh. He groaned as Caesar hand cupped him, squeezing slightly. 

“Open your eyes.”

Helpless, Antony saw Caesar looking down at him, almost contemplative. There’s a flush to his cheeks. Mark Antony would remember that.

“There, better,” Caesar said. And Caesar studied the angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the colors of his eyes in the early morning-

“You wanted my attention,” Caesar said, tightening his hold. “You have it by being a good soldier, by following my orders, not your own.”

Then he slapped Antony’s cock. 

Antony cried out and bolted upright, but his body had betrayed him. The pain only made him harder. He let out a small moan. 

“Turn around.” 

Antony could leave. He could proclaim it to the world and be a fool for it, but it was him, his body, who was the fool. 

“I’m not going to bugger you,” Caesar added. 

There was nothing reassuring in his tone, but Antony obeyed the command. He had never played the boy, but knew to keep his thighs closed so that if Caesar inclined to doff his armor, he could find a certain kind of pleasure from Antony. Perhaps, a fuck from a descendent of Venus could even be a kind of honour. 

Caesar’s armor was not overly ornate. A military life had curbed his natural fondness for ornamentation, but a belt was not completely devoid of metal. 

Gods it hurt. Antony cried out, then began to breathe harshly through his nose. The buckles bit into the skin of his arse, the back of his thighs. Involuntary tears pooled in his eyes. He had no one now. Yet as the agony become more vicious, the pain vanished to some vital moment of arousal so that every strike only sent him forward against into the rough blanket beneath him. His fingers curled and his breath hitched, interrupting the moans that were threatening to spill over. 

He lost count of the blows. After a while, A hand, shockingly cool, lay against his hip, bringing him back to the world: the small room, the Caesar patting his flank as if a horse, and the evidence of his own release cooling in a puddle beneath him. 

“I expect you to return before noon.”

And Antony had to smile and say the night was worth it when he returned to camp and earn his way back to the good graces of his solders while every step smarted, reminding him that Caesar had been kind. 

-=-=

“Come in,” Caesar said. The air was cold outside and Antony deserved that invitation after waiting until the tent was clear of slaves, soldiers, and supplicants. Caesar was not a man who slept much. He wrote letters back to Rome, containing the story of his campaign in Gaul, still less legend than propaganda. There were no heroics, just a simple and plain description of a commander named Caesar taming the barbaric north. There was no glory in fighting with Caesar until they take all of it. “You could be remarkably still, if you wanted. I almost didn’t notice you.” 

The scene seemed familiar. Something about the tilt of the head perhaps- Brutus, Antony remembered with a surprising tinge of nostalgia, had a similar look of concentration writing at his desk. However, his at Antony’s interruption tended to be more annoyance. “Did you think me rash?” Antony could not help asking. 

“You’re young,” Caesar said. “You enjoy doing things quickly because time seems to be running out.”

Antony was no longer young. Caesar merely thought him so because Caesar’s life started late, after he realized he still wished to be great, despite pirates and Bithynian lechery. Because of all- for he hanged the pirates and inherited a kingdom. Mark Antony’s own inheritance had been no better than Caesar’s at the start. And he’s not quite thirty. There’s still a whole life to live. His father was murdered. Cicero was still alive. “I’ve secured your alliance with the Arvedui. We’ve taken Lugdunum. Vercingetorix will surrender. Gaul will surrender. What next?”

“Very good,” Caesar said. “And you’d be right, time is running out. But where would you run to?”

When Antony was young and in Rome, he ran across rooftops to see Curio. It always felt like that talking to Caesar alone - doing something not expressly permitted, that perhaps later regret, and yet was so necessary because of the sheer excitement, the reward. “To see the end of the world.”

“When I was pontifex maximus, I learned that there are rules about everything to retain the favor of the gods. ” Caesar’s profile’s severe in the firelight. The neck, a bit thin, only heightened the strength of the jaw and the line of the nose. He stood, laid a hand on Antony’s shoulder. Antony suppressed a shiver. Caesar hadn’t touched him beyond the usual since that day Antony took leave of his sense. Rather, his body took over his senses. He remembered now the strain that still haunts him. Caesar must know. He knew Clodius and defended him against Cicero. And all Rome knew Antony’s reputation and rumored of worse.

“I will go with you even wherever you want to march,” Antony said, abruptly. It wasn’t meant as a seduction. He knew better now, but he still wished that Caesar wanted more than merely his loyalty. Loyalty Caesar could get from all men. Mark Antony could give him more.

Caesar let himself smile. “Would you really?” He offered his hand and just as Mark Antony leaned in, Caesar said, “I’m sending you to Rome.”

Antony, absurdly, wanted to refuse. He resisted. “Why?” he asked, mouth dry.

“No more soldiering for a time. You need to join the cursus honorum and be my quaestor if we’re to march anywhere."

“You can’t get me elected.” Cicero was still in the senate. Cicero was the thorn on Mark Antony's side and no particular friend of Caesar's.

“I can,” Caesar said. “I will. Go back to Rome.”

He offered his ring. This time, Antony knelt before placing the seal of his lips over it.

“I obey.” He looked up, if Caesar asked, he would lay gladly spread for the belt or else- The memory of that lust and the mystery behind it almost propelled him to ask for it. That story of Venus must have some truth to it if he was feeling so compelled, so utterly in need of Caesar that his bones sometimes ached with the memory like an old wound.

He closed his eyes as Caesar cupped his jaw, quite tenderly, and placed a kiss on his forehead. 

"Let us take Gaul first," Caesar said and swept his thumb over Antony's mouth. He was beautiful on his knees. Caesar stepped away. The dark pools of Antony's eyes and the unbearable knowledge of him in the throes of pleasure had to be enough for now. Good men were rare. Desire too often satisfied was a dangerous thing. He would not squander Antony so. 

-=-=

**Author's Note:**

> TBC.


End file.
